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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830722">Hope Springs Eternal</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/skreev/pseuds/skreev'>skreev</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:41:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27830722</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/skreev/pseuds/skreev</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hope is a dangerous thing. It is the most fragile foundation upon which one can base their future. Like a lake frozen in winter’s dormancy, it provides solid footing only so long as the ice does not crack or buckle, and when it does fracture, the water beneath feels so cold, so dark that it is impossible to escape unscathed.<br/>----<br/>Ingrid and Sylvain are engaged, until they're not. A story about hope, disappointment, and taking control of one's destiny.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Hope Springs Eternal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It starts where most stories end. </p><p>Margrave Gautier needs troops, and Galatea can offer them.</p><p>That is the excuse Ingrid’s father gives her when they ride north. Galatea’s land is poor, and so are its people, which means good recruitment rates for the ongoing civil war. Ingrid is allowed to accompany her father because she “enjoys these sorts of matters” according to the Count. She does not question it until they arrive.</p><p>Margrave Gautier meets them at the front of the house. Sylvain waits beside him, his hands gripped tightly in front of him. His presence surprises her, and she finds herself smiling when she sees him. She had expected him to be in Fraldarius, working with Rodrigue and Felix on fortifications. </p><p>“Ing!” Sylvain cries as she slides off her pegasus. He cannot help but swing her into a hug. Ingrid can feel the burn of her father’s eyes as he watches them.</p><p>“Put me down,” she shrieks and giggles. She notices that the Margrave is also watching them.</p><p>“Sylvain, will you show young Lady Ingrid to her chambers,” the Margrave says. There is something thickly laced in his voice, an implication that Ingrid does not quite catch. It is unusual for him to suggest this. Ever since she and Sylvain hit puberty, the Margrave has maintained a strict separation between the two during these visits.</p><p>Sylvain bristles when his father speaks. Ingrid recognizes all the signs. His shoulders curl slightly inward. His jaw sets uncomfortably.</p><p>“Yes, sir,” he says. He takes Ingrid by the wrist and leads her inside. The two fathers continue to watch as they disappear into the manor.</p><p>“What was that about?” Ingrid asks as they trudge up the staircase. One of Sylvain’s numerous servants will haul in her luggage. Another will unpack her dresses. Ingrid wonders what it is like to have so much help in the house.</p><p>Sylvain blows a strand of hair out of his face. “Our fathers are planning something.”</p><p>“The troop exchange?”</p><p>Sylvain bites his lip. They have arrived at Ingrid’s room. It is a lovely little chamber arranged for guests. It is larger than her room back in Galatea; Ingrid doubts that the room catches as many drafts or houses as many mice as her room back home.  </p><p>Sylvain looks up and down the long corridor. Only the faces of his ancestors peer back at him.</p><p>“Let’s talk about it in here.”</p><p>“My father will not be pleased,” Ingrid warns. This is not Garreg Mach. They cannot dawdle in each other’s bedrooms any more or loll about on each other's beds. They are adults—young eligible nobles at that. Ingrid’s only chances for marriage depend on her unblemished reputation.</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about this out here,” Sylvain says more seriously than usual. He pushes past Ingrid into her room. “It’ll be fine. Trust me.”</p><p>“What is going on?” Ingrid crosses her arms.</p><p>“Promise me you won’t freak out.”</p><p>“Well, now I feel like I will.” She crosses her arms. Her legs part to a fighting stance. </p><p>Sylvain sighs. He perches on the edge of the windowsill. Ingrid cannot help but admire his athletic form silhouetted by the setting sun. Ingrid has never denied that Sylvain is handsome. There is a distance to be observed, however. They stand across the room from each other. "Room for the goddess," as her father would say. </p><p>“Our fathers are potentially arranging a marriage between us.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Ingrid does not know what to say. It is not that she doesn’t have opinions on this matter—she has dozens, and they are all racing through her head at once. It’s that she does not know what Sylvain wants her to say. Does he want her to resolutely refuse? He has always eschewed the topic of marriage. Would he be offended if she rejected the proposal? His self-esteem is fragile enough.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because this puts you in a difficult position,” Ingrid says. “I understand that you do not want to marry and that because we are friends, the situation is awkward.”</p><p>Sylvain chuckles. “Not what most women would say when faced with the prospect of marrying me.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“What I mean is…never mind. I appreciate you, Ing.” Sylvain stuffs his hands in his pockets. His feet tap nervously. “Anyways, I’m sorry to drop this on you, but I agreed to the deal with my father on two conditions, and I want to make sure I talked to you before they had a chance to ambush you.”</p><p>He sounds so serious. Where is the boy who swung her around just minutes before? </p><p>“What are they?” Ingrid asks.</p><p>“One, that I would not marry you unless you gave your full approval,” Sylvain says. “And two, that I got to discuss the terms of our marriage with you first.”</p><p>Ingrid’s mouth feels dry. She is so overwhelmed that she cannot think straight. Her father lied to her to bring her here for yet another marriage proposal--perhaps that should not shock her. Marrying Sylvain is a whole new factor to consider. </p><p>“I am willing to hear your terms,” she barely manages to eke out.</p><p>“Right. Well, they’re not terms, exactly,” Sylvain says. “Look, neither of us wants to get married, but we both have to, so maybe this is the best option. We like each other, right? And you already put up with all of my shit, so I know you won’t be disappointed. If we’re going to go through with this, I want to ensure that we are on the same footing.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I mean, let’s look at this as an opportunity,” Sylvain says. He sighs heartily. “I want you to become a knight, Ingrid. It would kill me to keep you from that. So if you tell me you want to be a knight, I promise as your husband that I will allow you to pursue that dream.”</p><p>Ingrid begins to understand. This is a transaction like her other marriage proposals, only this one takes place between her and Sylvain, not their fathers.</p><p>“And what do you want me to promise in return?”</p><p>Sylvain nods. “There is an expectation for us to carry on the line. I get that. If we have children, I want you to promise that they will inherit regardless of whether or not they have crests.”</p><p>“Of course,” Ingrid says. Sylvain relaxes slightly.</p><p>“I thought you would agree,” he says sheepishly. “Of course, that does require us to be…let me start over. Another thing I would want is that we would be…husband and wife.” Ingrid raises an eyebrow. Sylvain cringes. She understands what he means, but she allows him to suffer through it. “What I mean is, I don’t just want this to be a marriage of convenience.”</p><p>“That’s exactly what this sounds like.”</p><p>“I want us to give it a try,” Sylvain finally says. His ears are burning bright as his hair. “Try being a real couple. We don’t have to rush things or anything, and if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out but—”</p><p>Ingrid turns to hide her face. Strange feelings threaten to erupt under the surface. She knows why it is so hard for Sylvain to form these words. She also knows why it is so hard for her to formulate a response. These are feelings that they do not speak. A line stands between them. If Sylvain gets too close, he pulls away. If Ingrid feels too strongly, she shuts it down. The possibility of marriage between the two of them was always so scant that it was never any use to bring up ideas of romance or feelings or desires. </p><p>Sylvain conceals his flirtations with humor and Ingrid channels her exasperation through annoyed disapproval. That works for them.</p><p>Now marriage is a real option, and with it, the floodgates open. Unspoken thoughts threaten to surge forward. Ingrid must struggle to keep them under control. This situation deserves a rational response.</p><p>“I agree,” she says. She notices how his eyes widen and his lips quirk at the corners. “On one condition.” Sylvain waits in anticipation. “You would have to be faithful to only me.”</p><p>“Of course! That goes without saying.” Ingrid gives him a look that makes him shrink back. “Okay, fine, maybe I deserve that one.”</p><p>“And one more thing,” Ingrid says. Her soul feels oddly light now. It is difficult to keep from smiling, although she wants to pretend that this is a serious negotiation. “If we have a daughter, I want her to have the same claims as her brothers. No arranged marriage.”</p><p>“You see, this is why it might work out,” Sylvain says. “You and I are already on the same page.”</p><p>“So now what?” Ingrid has never felt nervous around Sylvain. Now she has jitters that make her want to shake and pace around the room. She swings on her heel waiting for Sylvain to react.</p><p>“Now we wait for our fathers to negotiate how many cows we’re worth,” Sylvain says. “I’m spoiled goods so I’m only worth half a pig, but you, my dear Ingrid, would fetch a hundred heads of the finest heifers this side of the mountains.”</p><p>Ingrid laughs and covers her face. “Stop.”</p><p>Sylvain crosses the space between them. He wraps his arms around her in a tight squeeze that makes her heart skip a beat. Ingrid does not fight it. He rocks her in his arms as he says, “Yes, we’ll tell our grandchildren about the romantic story of how our parents paired us up like a fine pair of breeding stallions.”</p><p>“Is this your idea of a marriage proposal?” Ingrid asks. “Considering your reputation, I expected better.”</p><p>“Would you like a marriage proposal? Want me to ambush you with flowers and a ring?”</p><p>Ingrid does not want to admit that the idea sounds appealing.</p><p>“How about some wine and stargazing?” she suggests. She also does not want to admit to him that in all the stories of knightly romance that she has read, that particular scenario was her favorite.</p><p>“Why, Lady Ingrid, you would scandalize your father with that sort of talk,” Sylvain says. “Don’t you know what a man like me could do to a sweet thing like you?”</p><p>Ingrid knows, and the thought gives her a thrill. They would truly be like husband and wife. Ingrid is not as naïve as her father might think. Thoughts of Sylvain sometimes rile her at night. The sight of him with other women still prickles her with jealousy. She has only imagined what it might be like to be loved by him. These are thoughts kept safe in the covenant of night. </p><p>Never has she allowed herself to consider such matters in the broad light of day. Especially not while guarded by his strong arms.</p><p>“You better behave or I’ll call the whole thing off,” she says.</p><p>“Mmm, too late.” Sylvain murmurs into her hair. It is such a pleasant sensation, his lips vibrating against her scalp. “Once our betrothal is officially sealed by the church, it can be very difficult to back out. My dad would have to pay yours a restocking fee, and the stingy bastard would rather die.”</p><p><em>This could work</em>, Ingrid realizes. The light feeling blossoms outward until everything feels bubbly. She wants to laugh at everything he says. Her future does not seem so bleak, not even with the war raging. Never did she think that she may actually marry someone who did not repulse her. She could be a knight. They could build a marriage forged on friendship and, perhaps, eventually love.</p><p>“Hey, Ing,” Sylvain says. “Can I kiss you, or is it too soon?”</p><p>Blushing, Ingrid lifts on her tiptoes, and he meets her halfway. The kiss is chaste at first. It sends shockwaves of indelible frisson straight through her toes.</p><p>Sylvain handles her like he is afraid to break her. Ingrid is the one to urge it forward, pressing into him like she is afraid she will fall. He responds enthusiastically, hands threading her hair, his body catching hers. Her thoughts reel backwards to her nocturnal fantasies. This is better, she decides.</p><p>Only Ingrid’s father at the door interrupts them.</p><p>Ingrid freezes in Sylvain’s arms. Then they both laugh. They are caught, but what does it matter? Such things no longer need to be hidden. </p><p>Ingrid leaves Gautier with a feeling of hope.</p><hr/><p>Hope is a dangerous thing. It is the most fragile foundation upon which one can base their future. Like a lake frozen in winter’s dormancy, it provides solid footing only so long as the ice does not crack or buckle, and when it does fracture, the water beneath feels so cold, so dark that it is impossible to escape unscathed.</p><p>Ingrid’s father delivers the news as casually as if he is reporting that he had sold a horse or that a relative was coming to visit. He did not even call Ingrid to his office to break it to her. Instead, she had been briskly following him to the stables, as he prepares to rendezvous with her brothers.</p><p>“I figured I should mention that negotiations fell through with Gautier,” he says, as he slides on his riding gloves. “The man is completely unwilling to compromise on any point. I remember now why I didn’t want do to business with him before.”</p><p>At first, Ingrid thinks he might be talking about the troop exchange again. “What wouldn’t he compromise on?”</p><p>“On your marriage, of course,” Count Galatea says. “But it is for the best. Good friends as you might be, I really doubt that you would have enjoyed being married to a man like Sylvain.”</p><p>The realization strikes Ingrid like a punch to the gut. “The engagement is broken?”</p><p>“Hard to break what never was,” Count Galatea says. He does not even look at his daughter. In between sentences, he barks orders to the lone stable hand that they can afford. It always strikes Ingrid as petty that he insists on hiring servants instead of eating food or dressing warmly. He still wants to the life of a noble, or at least the veneer of it. “The betrothal was never blessed by the church, which certainly makes it easier on us to renege.”</p><p>Ingrid can barely process what her father is saying to her. As hard as she tries to straighten her face into blasé acceptance, her lips keep hooking downwards, and her breathing sounds ragged to her ears.</p><p>Count Galatea finally spares a glance towards his daughter. “I understand that you may be disappointed by this news,” he says. “But trust your dear old pa. I will find you a man that will give you a good life. I have only the best intentions for you.”</p><p>His voice chatters against the noise of her brain. The engagement is broken. She and Sylvain would not be married. There would be no faithful promises. He would no longer be hers. She may never be a knight. Whatever future husband awaited her, he would never promise her what Sylvain had. Her children would be locked into the same vortex of crests and inheritance as she had been. </p><p>The ice cracks beneath her feet. It feels like plunging into icy water. Like seeing the shore disappear. Like drowning in inky darkness.</p><p>Ingrid waits until her father rides off to cry.</p><hr/><p>Sylvain takes the news worse than Ingrid.</p><p>“You can blame that father of hers!” Margrave Gautier roars. “Greedy bastard. Just takes, takes, takes. He forgot that we would have been doing him a favor. You ever wonder why Rodrigue didn’t pledge her to Felix after Glenn died? Well, you’ve got your answer.”</p><p>Sylvain hears the fervor of his blood pumping in his ears. He does not understand this. His father wants him married. His father found him a good crested wife. This is everything his father had demanded of him for years, and now that Sylvain finally agrees, he yanks it all away from him because of some petty quarrel with Ingrid’s father?</p><p>“Did you not even try to negotiate?” Sylvain cannot restrain the snarl in his voice.</p><p>“What for! I can find you wives just as pretty and as well-bred for half the price,” the Margrave says.</p><p>“Do not talk about her like she is one of your racehorses.”</p><p>The Margrave appears taken aback. “And here I thought you did not wish to be married.”</p><p>Sylvain has no answer for this. He grips his hands tightly behind his back so that his father would not see how tightly curled his fists are.</p><p>“Well, if you’re going to insist upon it, I would rather be married to Ingrid than anyone else.”</p><p>Margrave Gautier rolls his eyes. The action makes Sylvain feel like a child again. “You will get over her, the same way you get over all of your infatuations.”  </p><p>Afterwards, Sylvain drowns his disappointment in whiskey. It tastes like dirt and smoke. It tastes like he feels—base, low, disintegrated into ash. Sylvain buries his feelings in the bosom of a pretty barmaid. He does not feel her hands clamp behind his neck or the pliable warmth of her body as he presses her against the wall of the alley.</p><p>Sylvain whores and drinks and gambles until he no longer feels anything at all. That is for the best. It is better to be numb, he decides, than disappointed.  </p><hr/><p>Sylvain has been wondering what is so different about Garreg Mach, and it takes him a fortnight before he realizes what it is. It should be so familiar. All of his classmates filter back until he almost wonders if there had ever been a war at all. He even inhabits the same dorm room; sleeps in the same bed; eats at the same seat in the dining hall.</p><p>What is missing is Ingrid.</p><p>She is there at Garreg Mach. She flew above him as Felix and Sylvain thundered down the road south, chasing rumors of a boar prince and the ghost of a professor. He sees her catching up with Dorothea by the pond. He sees her piling pork on her plate in the dining hall. He sees her everywhere.</p><p>Except with him.</p><p>And that is what Sylvain misses. His misses Ingrid sprawling on his bed in socks, complaining about her brother’s letters or chatting about books. He misses bribing her with meat pies in the market so that she will agree to help him with his homework. He misses whispering jokes into her ear during the obligatory religious services or her elbow nudging into his ribs to keep him awake as the priests drone prayers.</p><p>He misses her.</p><p><em>It is easier this way,</em> he tries to convince himself. Easier for whom, he can’t decide. He tells himself that Ingrid would not want to see him after what had passed—as if he had done something personally wrong to her. The truth is, it is harder for him to see her. Every time he sees her, his stomach twists, and regret swills his mind like a persistent hangover.</p><p>Avoiding her becomes increasingly difficult. Ingrid and Sylvain manage well enough in company. They can put up smiles around their friends and fight side by side in battle. Being alone together is the issue. It does not escape Sylvain how Ingrid always conjures an excuse to slip away whenever the crowd began to dwindle. </p><p>The longer he avoids her, the harder it becomes to confront her. </p><p>“Felix, Ingrid left her helmet in the training grounds. Can you return it to her?”</p><p>Felix groans. “No. Do it yourself.”</p><p>“I…can’t. Come on, Felix, just be a pal.”</p><p>“Why are you two acting so weird?” If Felix notices, then it must have gotten bad. Sylvain has nothing to explain himself. Their engagement had been so brief that Sylvain had never even explained it to his friends. No one else knew what had passed between them.</p><p>“Look, can’t you just—”</p><p>“No.” Felix walks off.</p><p>Sylvain has no choice. He can either abandon the helmet where he found it or return it himself. The idea of letting Ingrid lose her helmet just because he is a coward seems so silly to him that he forces himself to go her room. Sylvain knows that she always drops by the bathhouse after training and then straight to her room, where she rests before dinner. Part of him hopes that she is still bathing, so that he can leave the helmet at the door and be done with it.</p><p>The thought of Ingrid bathing does bad things to him. </p><p>While he manages to make it to her door, he cannot bring himself to knock. This should not be this awkward. They had been friends for so long. There was a time when he felt no qualms about flirting with her, nor her in shutting him down. They had always engaged in that sort of romantic interplay. So why does it matter now?</p><p>Standing here, in front of the door, Sylvain remembers what he had felt the moment his father first proposed the union to him. Hope. He had felt hope. Hope that marriage could be something other than an obligation. Hope that he might finally have Ingrid to himself. Hope that something good could happen to him.</p><p>That was all taken away from them.</p><p>Sylvain knocks his forehead against the door and waits there, head pressed against the wood, caught in limbo. It would not be so bad if they had managed to scrape together a semblance of civility before now. They are both so awkward around each other that even this one minor encounter seems laden with unspoken tension.</p><p>What will he say to her? And why does it matter?</p><p>The door opens. Ingrid waits on the other side.</p><p>“Sylvain,” she says.</p><p>“Hi,” he utters, the first words spoken to her in private in a year. “You left your helmet behind.”</p><p>She takes it from him. “Thank you.”</p><p>They stare at each other. Ingrid does not move to close the door. Sylvain does not move to leave.</p><p>“Well,” he says, “Guess I’m off.”</p><p>Ingrid nods. The door begins to close. Suddenly, Sylvain shoots his foot out to catch it.</p><p>“Wait, I have a question,” he says. Ingrid’s eyes are filled with expectation. She almost looks frightened, like a bunny about to spring away from a fox. “Why did you cut your hair? It always looked so good long.”</p><p>Ingrid’s laugh is borne from surprise. “Is that what you have to say to me?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sylvain grins. “Not I don’t like short hair or anything, but I miss my Ingrid with the braid and the ribbons and the hair constantly in her face.”</p><p><em>I miss my Ingrid.</em> That is as close he would come to saying the truth.</p><hr/><p>Dorothea coaxes Ingrid out for a night of drinking. Dorothea knows too much. It is her idea for Ingrid to unwind and have fun, perhaps to find a fling who can help her forget about Sylvain. But Ingrid lacks the appetite for an affair. Any relationship she has will just end in the same defeat.</p><p>Ingrid is not fated for romance. She will have to satisfy herself with the grand courtships and rescues found in the tales of chivalry that she devours.</p><p>Alcohol eases the tension. Mercedes, she discovers, has an unexpectedly high tolerance for booze. Annette drops like a fly after the first beer. Petra teaches them a drinking song from Brigid. Ingrid laughs and enjoys herself. She forgets about the war. She forgets about her father’s letters. She even forgets about Sylvain.</p><p>But not entirely.</p><p>Petra needs to “do the pissing as in a racehorse,” a phrase the Dorothea teaches her and that causes spasms of laughter amongst the women. Ingrid agrees to walk with her. Tipsy and stumbling, she nearly collapses over Petra as they stumble out the door to find the privy.</p><p>Ingrid’s laughter dies in her throat. Sylvain stands across the street. His arm braces above a pretty brunette, who strokes his chest and laughs obnoxiously at his lines. Sylvain drags his thumb over her lips. It brings an unwanted memory of standing in the guest room together, Sylvain asking if he can kiss her, dreaming of a future where they might be happy. Jealousy floods Ingrid. She feels hot and shamed and angry all at once. </p><p><em>Isn’t he just so suave? So smooth.</em> Ingrid boils inside. He is not hers any longer. He was never hers in the first place. His faithfulness to her depended on marriage. <em>He was probably relieved when he learned that he would not have to marry me.</em></p><p>Sylvain’s head turns, and his eyes meet hers. His sensual smile fades, and he stumbles backwards from his date. He waves awkwardly to Ingrid. Ingrid does not respond. She pushes Petra ahead of her, and they stumble down the dark path.</p><p>Suddenly, the alcohol does not taste so sweet. Ingrid retches into the latrine.</p><hr/><p>Ingrid has a headache. The dim light afforded by candles worsens the tension in her head. She is camped out in the Cardinal’s Room, trying to map out battalion positions. She has three flyers injured, and another lost their mount in a hail of arrows. Byleth wants her to supplement with wyverns, but wyverns are notoriously aggressive towards pegasi in close quarters, and Ingrid doesn’t want to risk a beast making a lunch of one of her riders.</p><p>“There you are.” Sylvain marches in with a plate of assorted meats. Ingrid’s eyes widen involuntarily. “I noticed you weren’t at dinner.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Ingrid says. Her stomach grumbles as she spies the plate. “I have to work on this. Byleth wants a report in the morning.”</p><p>Sylvain places the plate beside her. He leans over her shoulder to skim her work. His cheek hovers a hair apart from hers.  Ingrid’s breath hitches at the proximity.</p><p>“Don’t use wyverns.” Sylvain can be serious. Ingrid enjoys these moments. It gives a rare peek behind the curtain that is usually drawn so tightly over his face. “I don’t care how well-trained the corps thinks they are. They can share airspace, but a mixed battalion never works.”</p><p>“I need more steeds.” Ingrid sighs. She needs to concentrate on the strategy, but instead, she’s dwelling on the warmth radiating from his body. “Or else we’ll be running half-formations.”</p><p>“Go down to the market, and I guarantee you can hire anyone you need."</p><p>“I do not like using mercenaries.” His hand braces just inches away from hers on the table. Why does that distract her so much? “If I can buy their loyalty, then there’s always someone else who can outbid me.”</p><p>“You’re running out of options, Ing,” Sylvain says. “At least eat something?”</p><p>Ingrid agrees. Eating at least provides her a diversion. She reaches for the plate, and Sylvain finally takes a seat beside her. She misses his warmth almost immediately.</p><p>Sylvain begins talking idly. He never could stand silence. Ingrid mostly listens. <em>He’s trying, at least, to return to normal</em>, she thinks. She is not certain that she is ready. What a fool, she is; just another girl to fall in love with Sylvain only to end in heartbreak. She wonders if the other girls also felt the pain so acutely. <em>What is it about this man?</em> The power he holds over her causes a flush of annoyance.</p><p>He chatters on about his night out with Felix, and Ingrid’s stomach clenches in dread. She knows where this story ends: with Sylvain in somebody else’s arms. And he would recount how he pissed her off, and Ingrid would make a cutting remark about his treatment of women.</p><p>Sylvain begins to falter as he nears the end of his story. It cuts off awkwardly short, as if he is ending it two sentences early. Judging by the color in his cheeks, she can guess what happened anyways.</p><p>“I have to get back to work,” she says curtly. “Thank you for the food.”</p><p>“Ingrid,” Sylvain says with a hearty sigh, “I don’t want things to be like this between us.”</p><p>Ingrid ducks her head. She pretends that she is reading her report.</p><p>“Like what?” She struggles to maintain the apathy in her tone. This is the talk where Sylvain explains that she meant nothing to him and that she should have known that he makes plenty of promises to plenty of women. She should have expected broken vows and a lack of follow-through.  </p><p>“Ingrid, you are my oldest, dearest friend,” Sylvain starts. The word <em>friend</em> is particularly atrocious to her. “I know that we were both disappointed by what happened.”</p><p>That is the first time that Sylvain admits to her that he was disappointed. Ingrid gains the courage to look at him. His focus trains on the wall behind her shoulder. It is a visual feint—to pretend he is facing her without having to actually having to look at her.</p><p>“But if I can’t have you as my wife, I am happy to have you as my friend,” he says. These words don’t sound like him. These words sound like Byleth or Mercedes coaching him. They sound like he has practiced them a dozen times in front of the mirror. “And I still want…I need you in my life. Please, Ingrid, let’s not let this be the end of things.”</p><p>Something breaks inside of her.</p><p>There are many things that Ingrid could say. She could reassure him that they will be friends forever. She could rebuff his advances. She could play it all off as nothing. She could confess that she missed him.</p><p>“Were you really disappointed?” Ingrid asks. Of all the things to say, this seems like the worst.</p><p>Sylvain clearly is not expecting this. He coughs and rubs the back of his head. “Weren’t you?”</p><p>“Answer the question.”</p><p>She wants an answer. A direct answer. A clear answer. All this time, she assumed that Sylvain would be relieved by the end of their engagement. He hates marriage; dreads it; avoids it. He had only agreed to marry Ingrid because she was the best option available to him.</p><p>“Well…yeah.”</p><p>His eyes slide towards her. Cinnamon brown irises melt under her gaze. Her breath catches. What a strange thing to set her blood on fire.</p><p>Ingrid becomes very conscious of the juxtaposition of her body next to his. They sit side by side. Their knees touch. One of his hands rests on the table. Both of hers bunch in her lap.</p><p>Suddenly, his body shifts. He leans forward and waits. When she does not shirk away, he broaches the distance. The hand on the table moves to scoop a strand of hair out of her face. His fingertips graze the side of her face as they move the strand aside.</p><p>“I do like the short hair, you know,” he says. “It suits you. Makes you look strong and powerful.” His eyes flick down her face and back up again. She realizes that her mouth is hanging open. His thumb perches on her chin as he studies her reaction.</p><p>Then he makes his move.</p><p>His lips brush against hers, and instantly, Ingrid falls apart in his embrace. His arms pull her up against him. She finds her hands scoping the muscles in his arms. She remembers what it was like to be held by him. She remembers what it was like to dream of a life with him.</p><p>She also remembers the sting when it all fell apart.</p><p>Ingrid pulls away. It takes every ounce of restraint to break the embrace.</p><p>“Sylvain, we can’t.”</p><p>“Why not?” he murmurs, still so close to her face that his breath tickles her.</p><p>“Because… because this will only end in more disappointment.”</p><p>Sylvain blinks. Realization dawns over his face.</p><p>“Shit. You’re right.”</p><p>Sylvain pulls away. Ingrid feels strangely cold.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says.</p><p>“No, no, it’s fine,” Sylvain says. </p><p>“It’s not that I don’t want to—”</p><p>“Ing, it’s fine.” Sylvain does not sound fine. His voice sounds raw and haggard. “I better go.”</p><p>He leaves her with a half-full plate of cold meat and the memory of his heat against her body. Ingrid inhales deeply to steel her racing nerves.</p><p>This will not happen again.</p><hr/><p>Sylvain wants to be better. He is going to give up drinking. He swears a vow of celibacy. The money he would usually spend in the taverns piles up in a jar in his room so that one day he can convince her father himself.</p><p>He fails.</p><p>Sylvain knows that he sucks at coping. Before, if he had binged too hard, Ingrid would drag him away from the edge of the abyss. Now he has only himself, and he hates himself. At night, when the loathing reaches its fiercest peak, he cannot shut out the voices in his head that remind him of all his failings.  </p><p>Booze is the easy solution. Booze usually leads to women. It does not bother him because he usually does not remember it the next morning.</p><p>This morning, however, his head howls with pain. His whole brain spills over with fuzz. His mouth feels like a thousand daggers. When he sits up in bed, the world spins, and everything he drank last night comes up at once.</p><p>A cool hand sits on his neck and guides his head towards a bucket. He is too wretched to even guess who it might be. He knows already he did not sleep with her. He never lets them stay overnight, not even when piss-blind-drunk.</p><p>Evacuating all of his organs into the bucket helps. He manages to lean back on his pillows. His caretaker clucks in a familiar manner, and he realizes what he has done.</p><p>“Ing,” he moans. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“Would you have preferred to lay in your own sick all night?” Ingrid asks. It almost sounds like salvation to hear that judgment in her tone. Ingrid is taking care of him again. Perhaps there was a goddess.</p><p>“You didn’t have to do this,” he says.</p><p>“You made it hard to ignore you.”</p><p>“Ah, shit. What did I do?”</p><p>“You don’t remember?”</p><p>Sylvain wraps an arm over his eyes to block out the light. “Just break it to me, and we can move on.”</p><p>“You knocked on my door last night.”</p><p>Sylvain’s heart plummeted. “Did I profess my love?”</p><p>An awkward beat of silence passes. “Uh…no.”</p><p>Now Sylvain feels embarrassed. Why did he say that? In the olden days, he might have passed it off as a joke. Now it is too real.</p><p>Ingrid continues. “You asked me who names all the cats on campus. You were really insistent on it.”</p><p>Sylvain laughs. Needles of pain shoot through his skull. His throat tightens, and his belly boils with a threat to regurgitate. He keeps laughing anyways. Ingrid brings the bucket up to him again. <em>She’s good at that,</em> he thinks. <em>She always knows when I’m about to lose it.</em></p><p>“You then told me you named a pair after you and me,” Ingrid says. “You got worried that someone might mind.”</p><p>“I named cats after us?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Ah, so I did profess my love then.”</p><p>Ingrid laughs. Sylvain wants to hear that sound forever. He will be better this time. He swears it.</p><hr/><p>It happens again.</p><p>It starts out covertly, as if they are trying to keep a secret from the world. In reality, they’re mostly keeping it from themselves.</p><p>It happens in lonely stairwells, when no one is watching. It happens as they work in the stables together early in the morning. It happens, most often, in the seclusion of their rooms, while they pretend to work on other business.</p><p>The kissing becomes a problem.  </p><p>He kisses her hand as they part after the war meetings. He kisses her as she dismounts her pegasus after battle. He kisses her as she pins him against the mat in the training grounds. He takes her on a <em>not-date </em>into town and pulls her behind the tavern and kisses her so thoroughly that the local constable has to break them apart.  </p><p>The more that they kiss, the less clandestine it needs to be. It becomes normal, until Ingrid eventually slips and calls Sylvain her boyfriend when talking to Dorothea. She isn’t even embarrassed when Dorothea points out the gaffe.</p><p>And one night, Sylvain kisses her so deeply that she doesn’t even chase him out of her room. In fact, she begs him to stay, and Sylvain agrees, perhaps a bit too readily.</p><p>So here she is, lying naked in a bed with a man who would not be her husband.</p><p>If kissing was a problem, this is a catastrophe. Ingrid must remain pure. Her father instilled the value of her virginity into her at a young age, even while her brothers ran wild through the town. Ingrid’s value exists within her womb, and her womb must be pristine for whatever husband purchases her hand.</p><p>The idea that another man would ever touch her as Sylvain had touched her sickens her. So she doesn’t think about it. Instead, she tries to pretend that this is her reality. That she could have woken up like this every day. That her and Sylvain can make it work. </p><p>Her finger traces idle shapes in Sylvain’s stomach. His hand encloses around hers and brings it up for a kiss.</p><p>“Morning Ing,” he murmurs, not quite awake. Ingrid shifts onto her stomach to look up at his half-closed eyes and mussed hair.</p><p>“Go back to bed,” she says. “It’s too early for you.”</p><p>“Nah,” he responds. His arms wrap around her body and pull her on top of him. Her breathless giggle makes him smile, even though his eyes are still mostly closed.</p><p>“You’ll regret this later when you have to sit through three hours of war meetings.”</p><p>“I will never regret this,” Sylvain murmurs. The line makes her heart flutter.</p><p>“Always a sweet talker, aren’t you?”</p><p>“These lips speak nothing but the truth.” As if to prove it, he cranes his neck up to peck her on the lips. “They’re also adept at other things too.” Ingrid laughs as he nibbles her neck. She ignores the pit in her stomach. </p><p><em>This will only end in disappointment,</em> she had told him. That voice still echoes in her head. She breathes in deeply to settle her misgivings. </p><p>"Hey, what's wrong, Ing?" he asks her, concern lacing his voice. </p><p>"Nothing," Ingrid says. She lets him kiss her until she forgets. </p><hr/><p>Sylvain allows himself to get comfortable.</p><p>He has never lasted this long before in a relationship. Monogamy is a strange experiment for him. It helps that it’s Ingrid. There’s precious little maneuvering with her. He knows her. She knows him. It’s simpler than he thought it would be.</p><p>In different times, perhaps, he would have been wary of a relationship like this, but war is long and hard. He welcomes the comfort that Ingrid brings. It is pleasant to return to her in the evenings. It is more pleasant to wake up next to her in the morning. He grows to enjoy their routine. He especially likes watching her comb her hair in the morning; dawn makes it glow golden through the window.</p><p>The ‘honeymoon period’ he overhears Dorothea call it, as though he and Ingrid would ever have a honeymoon. Unless their fathers could be convinced. So he’ll accept this for now.</p><p>He is sent away to Brigid when it happens. Petra leaves to negotiate with her grandfather, and Sylvain accompanies as an escort. Still recovering from a swollen ankle, Ingrid remains behind.</p><p>During his journey, it surprises Sylvain how much he misses her. Thoughts of her inflame him at night. During the day, he constantly says something dumb, only to realize she’s not there to chastise him for it. Returning brings an anticipation that he had never felt before. Time seems to plod slowly forward, and the ship moves so sluggishly that Sylvain dreams of swimming across the channel instead.</p><p>He practically bounds into Ingrid’s room. He does not even stop to knock.</p><p>“Honey, I’m—” He stops as he sees her. Ingrid is curled up on her bed, sobbing into her knees. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>Ingrid babbles something incoherent and gestures to her feet. Papers strew the bed. Sylvain collects the miscellaneous parts of a letter. He recognizes the seal and the handwriting. They come from Ingrid’s father.</p><p>Sylvain reads the parts out of order, but he quickly gleans the gist.</p><p> Count Galatea has finally found Ingrid a husband.</p><p>There is no asking for Ingrid’s assent in these letters. Time has run out. The family coffers are desolate. Even Galatea's robust battalions are spread thin across Faerghus. The suitor is a merchant who fields a strong private militia. They need the soldiers as badly as they need the funds.</p><p>Sylvain sits dumbfounded on the edge of her bed.</p><p>Ingrid recovers enough to explain. “The betrothal will be done by proxy. Then after the banns are read, I am to return to Galatea to be wed.”</p><p>“You’re not going to do this, right?” Sylvain asked.</p><p>The question only makes Ingrid break into fresh tears.</p><p>“What can I do?” Ingrid asks. “This is not just about my family anymore. The war—”</p><p>“A few extra battalions isn’t going to make or break this war,” Sylvain says. “And once you’re married to him, there’s no saying that he will actually go through with it. Assholes like this have nothing to gain from taking sides.”</p><p>Ingrid’s face contorts in grief. He realizes he’s hurting her after he says it. Of course, Ingrid does not want to marry this stranger. He has known this as long as he has known her. Ingrid wants to become a knight. Ingrid wants to live her own life.</p><p><em>But we don’t always get what we want</em>, Sylvain thinks bitterly. Hadn’t he always known it would come to this? They are not fated to martial bliss and eternal love. Their affair will end with either death or a peace treaty. He just did not expect it to come so soon.</p><p>The idea of Ingrid marrying another man burns him. It makes him want to writhe and scream. He will never see her again after this. That hurts him more than anything. There was no way some oily oligarch would allow his crested young wife to associate with male friends, much less one with whom she had such an obvious attachment to.</p><p>A horrible side of him emerges. He could stop this, easily. When the banns are read in church, he could lodge an objection in front of the parish. He could reveal that he had seduced Ingrid. The spite fades as he realizes that it would hurt her more than anyone.</p><p>Part of him wants to ride north to confront this man himself. But what would he do? Threaten the man? Persuade him to drop his suit?</p><p>There is nothing he can do. Sylvain bites his tongue to contain the scream he is holding inside.</p><p>Sylvain does not realize he is crying too until he tastes the tears on his lips. Why is he crying? This is Ingrid’s fate, not his. He is selfish for wanting her all to himself. He is selfish for crying at her misfortune and thinking only of what he wants.</p><p>Ingrid’s arms slide around his. His body melts automatically into her embrace. She pulls him against her as she leans against the headboard. Her shirt absorbs his tears, and he can feel hers soak into his hair. They allow themselves to mourn together what they have lost. </p><p>After a few minutes, it passes for both of them. They lie together for a few more minutes in silence. Finally, Sylvain speaks.</p><p>“So what are you going to do?” </p><p>“To make the betrothal official, I’ll have to go down to the cathedral and have a priest bless the union,” Ingrid says. “Once those forms are filled out, we send them back to Galatea, where they will read the banns for three weeks. Then I’ll have to leave.”</p><p>“So you’re going to go through with it then?”</p><p>Ingrid just sighs.</p><p>“Don’t do it, Ing,” Sylvain pleads. How desperate his voice sounds—how raw and broken. He’s like a child again, begging for Miklan to stop beating him. “I love you. Don’t do it.”</p><p>Ingrid says nothing.</p><p>“Please,” he says. “I will convince my father to let us marry. I’ll pay whatever he won’t. I swear it. We can still get married. Please, Ing.”</p><p>Her hand stiffens on his shoulder.</p><p>Sylvain props himself to look into her face.</p><p>“Let’s just do it. Let’s get married,” he begs. “Let’s take our destiny into our own hands and elope. We can get a priest here to do it for us. We don’t even need our fathers’ permission. As long as Dimitri o-or Byleth signs off on it—”</p><p>“Don’t.” Ingrid’s voice is just a whisper.</p><p>“I swear to you that I will be forever faithful,” Sylvain babbles, “And that I will let you be the best knight that I know you can be. I swear that whatever Galatea needs, I will provide it.”</p><p>“Please stop.”</p><p>He’s hurting her again. He knows it, but he can’t help himself. This is his last chance, he thinks. This is his <em>only</em> chance.</p><p>“My father will not object,” Sylvain says. “Trust me. Once it happens, he’ll have to go along with it. Do you really think that he would admit that his son seduced and eloped with a noble heiress? No. He’ll just pretend it was his idea the whole time. And he’ll have to pay your father the dowry. He’ll—”</p><p>Ingrid pushes him off of her. She scrambles to untangle herself from the bed. Sylvain grabs her. He tumbles off the bed, clambers to his knees, and begs.</p><p>“Stop.” Her voice is ice cold. It shatters him inside. “I do not want our remaining time together to be spent like this.”</p><p>Her words carry such finality in them.</p><p>“Why?” he asks. “Why are you doing this?”</p><p>“Sylvain, my brothers wear broken plate into battle,” Ingrid says. “My father only eats one meal a day. The roof is about to collapse in the manor, and if that happens, we will not survive the winter. All of their fates depend on me making the right decision.”  </p><p>“And I would do whatever it takes to ensure that they are provided for,” Sylvain says.</p><p>“I trust that you would,” Ingrid says, “but it’s not a risk I can afford to take.”</p><p>How easily hope evaporates, he thinks. Like a mirage of water on the horizon, it dissipates before it ever becomes real.</p><p>He should have known better. He had opened his heart to possibility only to find the gilded cage door snapping shut on him. How long until his father sent a similar letter? When that time came, would he comply?</p><p>He is still on his knees, his proposal rejected. Ingrid stands before him, her expression as broken as her heart. He has hurt her, and she is already in such pain. </p><p>“Can I stay here at least? Just for tonight?” he asks. This is just twisting the knife deeper. Sylvain has always been a glutton for punishment. He should not have asked her. He should drown his sorrows in spirits and women instead. At least then he would not be such a fool to think that they could make him happy. </p><p>Ingrid nods slowly. He stands awkwardly, and she pulls him back to the bed. His body molds to hers. He wants to memorize the shape of her body, imprint it in his mind, and carry it with him for a rainy day. He does not want to face the day when he will have to let her go. </p><hr/><p>In the morning, Ingrid is gone. It takes Sylvain several minutes to process what has happened. Ingrid is gone, and so is the letter from her father.</p><p><em>She’s gone to the cathedral</em>, he realizes in a spurt of panic. <em>She’s gone to have the priest bless the betrothal before she can regret it.</em></p><p>Sylvain flies out the door in a half-buttoned shirt and no shoes. The monastery passes in a blur around him. He almost crashes into a flock of nuns, but they scatter at his approach. He knocks into a candelabra when he enters. It clatters and booms when it strikes the stone floor.</p><p>Ingrid stands before the altar. One of the priests speaks to her, the letter in his hands. Sylvain cannot hear what they are saying, but she turns when she hears the crash of the candelabra.</p><p>He throws himself at her feet.</p><p>“Don’t do this, Ingrid,” he says. “I know what is at stake. I know that this a risk—”</p><p>“Sylvain!” Ingrid’s face flares red with embarrassment.</p><p>“Listen to me,” Sylvain says, “If this is what you truly want, then by all means do it, but if you are going to stake your happiness and your family’s welfare on a stupid marriage, risk it on me instead.”</p><p>People are beginning to stare. The monks stop chanting. The priest stares at Sylvain. Ingrid's mouth hangs open in shock. </p><p>The priest hems. “I take it he is the one, then?”</p><p>“Excuse me, Father,” Ingrid says. She grabs Sylvain by the collar. He finds himself dragged to the balcony outside of the cathedral. The sun-heated flagstones burn the soles of his bare feet. Ingrid turns on him.</p><p>“What are you doing?” she hisses. “In the cathedral of all places!”</p><p>“What are you doing?” Sylvain returns. “Are you really going to go through with that betrothal? Are you so desperate to be done with me?”</p><p>“I wasn’t there to bless the betrothal,” Ingrid snaps. “I was just trying to see if it was possible…if they really would…” Her voice is small when she says the next words, “if they would marry us.” The embarrassed flush deepens. “I’ve been disappointed before, and I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”</p><p>The reversal is so sudden that Sylvain’s brain cannot piece together what is happening. He looks at her, dumbfounded.</p><p>“The priests says parental permission for marriage is convention, not dogma,” she continues. “He read the letter from my father, and he doesn’t care if he disapproves.”</p><p>“So he will marry us?” Sylvain asks. Ingrid nodded. “Now?”</p><p>Ingrid laughs. It warms his heart to hear it. “We have to still read the banns,” she says. “For three weeks.”</p><p>“So in three weeks, you’ll marry me?”</p><p>“If that is what you really want.”</p><p>He clasps her hands in his and kisses her fingers. “It is. It really is.”</p><p>“Even though you never wanted to get married before?”</p><p>“I did want to get married before,” Sylvain says with a grin. “Remember? I wanted to get married to you.”</p><p><em>Goddess, she’s pretty,</em> Sylvain thinks, as she blushes and smiles and flusters. Yet beneath the placid surface of her face, conflict bubbles. It pools in her eyes and twists in her lips. She does not want to be hurt again. She wants to rationalize this. He wonders if he kisses her if she will forget about her worries.</p><p>“Sylvain, let’s be serious for a moment. This won’t solve all our problems.”</p><p>“I don’t care. That’s not why I’m doing it.” He presses his forehead against hers. “What if I propose over wine and stargazing? Like in that trashy novel you’re always reading.”</p><p>“That’s a start,” Ingrid says. “What if your father disowns you?”</p><p>“The only son in this generation with a crest? Not going to happen.” Sylvain presses into her. “You know, I’ve been saving up all my change to pay your dowry. How much does a new roof cost?”</p><p>“Almost two thousand gold.”</p><p>“Oh, well, I’ll buy your dad some groceries instead.”</p><p>Ingrid’s giggle emboldens Sylvain. It makes thing think something good can happen again. He still senses the bars of the gilded cage enclosing around him, but for once, he can also see something beyond them.</p><p>“So what do we have to do to make this official?” Sylvain asks her.</p><p>“First, you have to get dressed,” Ingrid said. “I’m adding to the terms of our engagement that you cannot run into church half-naked again.”</p><p>“Fine, but in return, I’m adding that you can only attend church half-naked.”</p><p>“<em>Sylvain</em>.”</p><p>Sylvain grins like an idiot. Perhaps he is an idiot. He has hoped and despaired, hoped and despaired, until there was nothing left in him. It would be foolish to pin his hopes on this again. Nothing is set until the banns are read and the marriage officiated. Even then, the war could split them apart or their fathers could attempt an annulment or any number of things.</p><p>But, for now, this feels real.</p><p>It feels like solid ground.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>But seriously...who does name all the cats at Garreg Mach? You can shoot me the answer on Twitter at @skreev1.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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